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Derek sighs as he pulls into the Stilinski driveway, letting the car idle for just a moment. He's gotten used to being here, to helping the Sheriff with the stranger cases that occasionally plagued the law enforcement of Beacon Hills. He even enjoyed it; the Sheriff is a good man, and they'd become friends over the years of close calls, near misses, and rallying together. And, Derek liked feeling useful, liked helping protect his town. It fulfilled some primal instinct his wolf felt, and made him feel a part of the human community.The only thing that Derek had trouble with was Stiles. It had grown terribly difficult to be around the other man, despite their surprisingly easy friendship. Mostly because it is terribly difficult to be friends with someone who you spend equal amounts of time wanting to kiss, and claim, and press up against a wall as you do wanting to smack them upside the head and argue with them. By the time he's done psyching himself up to go inside, the low rumble of the Sheriff's car draws Derek's attention, and the Sheriff is pulling into the drive beside him. They turn off and exit their vehicles practically in unison, and the friendly smile on John's face puts Derek at ease.

“Hey, Derek. Thanks for meeting me, son,” John says sincerely as he walks around his car to shake Derek's hand. The warm feeling at hearing the endearment wraps around Derek like a parental hug, and he couldn't keep the smile from his face if he tried.

“Any time, sir. I'm always happy to help you- and the BH Sheriff's department,” Derek adds the qualifier hastily, lest his true affection for the man’s fatherly-ness be obvious. John's eyes crinkle at the corners, like he caught the hasty addendum, but he leans casually against his car and starts talking as though he didn't.

“Well, I sure do appreciate it. I'm sure the rest of the department would, too, if we could tell them,” he says on a huff of laughter, a little of Stiles’ sarcasm shining through and for the first time, Derek thinks maybe it's not only a defense mechanism in the younger Stilinski. “Anyway,” John continues, settling further against the car, Derek takes it as an invitation to do the same as Sheriff Stilinski launches into the latest possibly supernatural crime.

It's a weird one, to be sure, and Derek is almost positive he knows the source, but as John continues, something catches Derek's ear. It's a low, rolling groan, and Derek wouldn't have normally caught it, but there was something familiar about the tone of it, and his senses immediately went into high alert. After focusing on the sound, it quickly became apparent that it was not a distressed sound as Derek originally thought. It was a decidedly pleasurable sound, and Derek was a little ashamed to admit that he couldn't turn his attention away from the quickened breathing and little whimpering moans that were coming from Stiles’ room.

He crossed his legs to mask the effect that it was having on the tightness of his pants, and hoped he was making appropriately attentive nods and thoughtful hums to convince John he was still wholly listening to him, and not trying to avoid coming in his pants while listening to his son masturbate.

As John relays the series of minor-but-mounting-in-severity thefts and attacks, Derek’s hands clench against his crossed arms at the unmistakable sound of a lube slicked hand moving lazily against hard flesh. The accompanying panted breaths and high, thready whines are pure torture.

Derek can't help but picture Stiles’ head thrown back into his pillow, long, pale neck exposed, beads of sweat tracing past his racing pulse, down between his lightly muscled pecs. He imagines Stiles’ free hand chasing it, his long fingers teasing the sensitive skin along the column of his throat, pinching his pale, pink nipples, rubbing his slightly defined abs before sneaking past his hard dick and cupping his balls. He suppresses a shiver at the thought of Stiles’ fingers circling around his puckered hole, pressing inside, his back arching off the mattress as he fucks himself eagerly, feet pushing into the bed for leverage as he bucks wantonly into his fist and back against his fingers, chasing pleasure.

Derek wishes it were his hands. His tongue, tracing that path.

Stiles’ breathing reaches a crescendo, and Derek's own is struggling not to escape in hard, fast pants. He can hear the slick sound of Stiles’ hand increasing its pace, the way the little moans have given way to louder, more desperate groans that sound like bitten off words; he's certain that the moan that sounds like his name is wishful thinking, but it still makes his whole body go hot and liquid. Except for his dick, which is closer to coming in his pants than he's been since the start of puberty. He's certain he must look pained, but the Sheriff is still talking animatedly, a liberal amount of “I can't believe this shit” in his voice.

Derek tries to focus on that instead of the strangled shout of “F-fu-uck,” and the long, stuttering groan that follows. The sounds of Stiles’ orgasm ring through him like his own, and Derek takes a moment to be grateful that they are outside and that he doesn't have to be confronted with the smell of Stiles’ sweat and come; he's certain he'd have done something ridiculous, like sprint up the stairs and throw himself at Stiles. Like beg to watch. To taste.

As Stiles’ breathing evens out to normal, his heartbeat settling into its usual flutter, Derek is able to wrestle his control back from the edge and refocus on the man in front of him. However, when the sound of feet rapidly descending the stairs and then the front door opening reach him, his face twists with panic. The Sheriff catches it, his expression equal parts concern and confusion, but before he can say anything, Stiles bursts out the door with his usual enthusiasm.

“Hey pops, what's happen-,” he stumbles a little as he notices Derek, but catches himself easily, his “Oh, hey Derek,” comes out sounding strangled, but Derek barely notices as he's assaulted with the intoxicating smell of post-orgasm Stiles. His usual (delicious) autumn leaves and spring sunshine and warm spice scent is sharp with sweat and spent arousal, and Derek practically growls his greeting through clenched teeth.

Both Stilinskis ignore his bad manners, and as John explains their discussion over again for Stiles’ benefit, Derek can't help but take in his messy hair and imagine running his fingers through it, or to recall the activity that caused its current state. Stiles’ pupils are still a little dilated, but Derek realizes it's from embarrassment and not left over desire as he catches Stiles’ shifting weight and how his hand keeps finding the back of his neck. His eyes darting in Derek's direction for brief seconds, his lower lip caught in his teeth, his shoulders too stiff as he notices Derek’s attention.

With a deep breath--one that is definitely a mistake, because it only brings a new rush of Stiles’ scent-- Derek physically turns away from Stiles, squaring his shoulders toward John and concentrating on catching the parts of the case he missed when he was distracted by Stiles earlier. John looks between the two of them and a strange look crosses his features; he looks almost amused.

“Anyway,” the Sheriff begins, a grin tugging at his lips, “That's about the size of it, boys. So, if you two wouldn't mind putting your heads together to see if you can't figure it out, I'd appreciate it.” There's humor in his voice, and he seems to notice the gulp Stiles takes as keenly as Derek does, because the grin takes over and it's decidedly mischievous. “Why don't you two go grab us some dinner while I clean up. We can talk about it while we eat.”

This time, Derek's the one who has to swallow hard. John laughs lightly as he walks toward the house, waving them off with a dismissive “Good talk, boys. See you in a bit.”

The sound of the front for closing is like a gunshot, and they both startle and then avoid each other's gaze.

With a deep inhale, Stiles says “So, Der-bear, I feel like I should apologize? Or,” his warm whiskey eyes rake over Derek appraisingly, taking in his rigid posture and flushed cheeks, they flash with surprise and something that might be interest, and his shame melts away into a self assured cockiness that Derek has come to appreciate. “Or maybe like you owe me dinner?” His smirk is heated and cocky, and Derek feels it like a caress even as his own embarrassment makes him feel like he's on fire from his toes to his ears.

“I- I can do dinner,” Derek stammers out. Stiles’ genuine smile helps him find his own modicum of composure and confidence, and he adds “And maybe later, you can show me what I missed.”

Stiles’ shocked stare and sputtered “Wha- are you- fuck,” is extremely gratifying, and when Stiles’ hot gaze lands back on Derek's, the desire there is enough to knock the breath from his lungs. They're suddenly standing a lot closer, and Stiles is leaning into Derek, his breath ghosting over his lips and his cheek as Stiles moves to whisper into his ear. “Get in the car and I'll give you a preview,” Derek's hands squeeze where they settled automatically on Stiles’ hips, and he groans and closes his eyes briefly.

“Stiles,” he rasps, waiting until the other man pulls away enough to meet his eyes, “Run.” It's a command and a plea, and Stiles responds with a whimper before practically leaping over the hood of Derek's car, scrambling to open the passenger door. A satisfied smile splits Derek's face, and as he slips into the driver's seat, he is pretty sure he hears John grumble “‘Bout damn time.”

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